The Apple
THE APPLE
by Devashish Sardana
Copyright © Devashish Sardana, 2019 All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web—without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
Dedicated to Megha Kapoor, my wife and best friend, my Apple
Table of Contents
CHAPTER-1
CHAPTER-2
CHAPTER-3
CHAPTER-4
CHAPTER-5
CHAPTER-6
CHAPTER-7
CHAPTER-8
CHAPTER-9
CHAPTER-10
CHAPTER-11
CHAPTER-12
CHAPTER-13
CHAPTER-14
CHAPTER-15
CHAPTER-16
CHAPTER-17
CHAPTER-18
CHAPTER-19
CHAPTER-20
CHAPTER-21
CHAPTER-22
CHAPTER-23
CHAPTER-24
CHAPTER-25
CHAPTER-26
CHAPTER-27
CHAPTER-28
CHAPTER-29
CHAPTER-30
CHAPTER-31
CHAPTER-32
CHAPTER-33
CHAPTER-34
CHAPTER-35
CHAPTER-36
CHAPTER-37
CHAPTER-38
CHAPTER-39
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Part One
Finding Eden
CHAPTER-1
The Day It Is Stolen
Azura, the Queen of Sentinels, jolts straight up in bed, sleep abandoned, dream forgotten.
A lightning bolt illuminates the night sky outside. White light seeps through the veins of darkness, igniting life in the dead of night. Boom! Thunder tears through the white light, nipping its fairy wings before they spread.
Azura’s chest heaves as she hauls broken chunks of air into her lungs. Her heart is on fire, like a piece of it has been ripped apart; grabbed, jerked, and yanked out. Unimaginable pain engulfs her. She has never felt this way. Never.
Am I having a stroke? No, can’t be. I am too young to have a stroke.
She gasps. She remembers her mother’s dying words. And she knows. She knows what the ripping means: for the first time in six thousand years, it has been plucked, stolen, gone.
How is it possible?
She clutches her chest and cries through gritted teeth. “Guards!”
Her voice fails against the ravaging duel between thunder and lightning. She draws a deep breath.
“GUARDS!”
Two men, dark of color and heavy of build, charge into the hut. They wear skirts made of pine needles. The loosely bunched pines waft in the breeze and crackle as the men dash into the room. Both carry tridents, three-pronged spears. Their sinewy, hairless chests shine brilliantly in the white light that dapples through the meshed window in the room. Apart from the pine skirts, they wear nothing. No armor, no ornaments.
“My queen?” says one of the guards.
“Wake…” Azura pauses and bites her lower lip to wade through the burning in her heart. “…wake Commander Bani. Gather troops.”
The guard glances at his comrade, who looks at him, equally confused. He considers asking ‘Why?’. But one never questioned the queen. Instead, he asks, “Now, my queen?”
Azura glares at him. Her eyes ablaze, her countenance fierce.
“YES! NOW!”
“Umm…” The guard looks everywhere except directly at Azura. “…what should I tell the commander?”
“Tell her it has been stolen.” Azura takes a deep breath. “An apple from the Garden of Eden has been stolen.”
CHAPTER-2
I Dream Of Saraph
“Welcome to North Sentinel Island, the last untouched island on Earth!” pronounced the girl in exuberant delight.
The two-seater kayak splashed onto the beach and came to a sudden halt. Almost on cue, the half-crescent moon brushed aside wisps of dark clouds and revealed its glorious soft curves.
“Shhh! Keep your voice low!” he whispered.
“Relax, darling.” Her tone was one usually reserved for a pet puppy. “Based on the drone surveillance report, the Sentinel guards never patrol this bay at night.”
He knew this. He had read the surveillance report. Twice. After he wrote it. After manning the drone. Himself. But, if there was one thing he swore by, it was caution. Which was counter-intuitive to the profession he had chosen, that is if one could call treasure-hunting a profession. But, then, years before word got around about his treasure hunting ability, he was a ten-year-old swindler on the streets of war-torn Mogadishu (Somalia) in the early 1990s, helping resistance fighters kidnap spoilt rich brats of corrupt Somali politicians. He hadn’t cared if the brats were grown men or his age. He needed the money to feed his baby sister and fend for himself. Especially after his parents had chosen to go grocery shopping the same day a suicide bomber visited the neighborhood market. Swindling was just a job that put food in the stomach – that’s how he tried to convince himself always, never successfully. But it was a job that required above anything else, caution.
“I know, Michelle!” He couldn’t help with undertones of exasperation in his voice. He wasn’t sure if the annoyance was directed at Michelle or his past sins.
He sighed. “That’s what scares me. What’s so treacherous that they don’t even bother to patrol this bay at night?”
Michelle ignored him. She raised her hand to check the time on her gaudy pink watch. He had gifted her the analog watch on their one-month dating anniversary. She wanted to celebrate the “big occasion”. She’d asked – no, demanded – a gift. For his mental wellbeing, he kept the frivolous thoughts of protestation to himself, and carefully picked a gift with Michelle’s favorite Disney character – Elsa, the Snow Queen from the movie Frozen. Now, sitting behind Michelle in the kayak, he saw Elsa glow in the dark, clamping both hands above her head at twelve. Midnight. Give or take a few seconds.
“Right on schedule!” Michelle announced. She unhooked her seat belt, grasped the strap of her cross-body satchel and jumped onto the beach. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”
The kayak wobbled in the squashy sand. He braced himself, still strapped in the seat. He shook his head. There was no point in asking her to keep the excitement levels down. Michelle was born that way.
“Wait!”
He unhooked the seat belt and stood. Cautiously, one foot at a time, he stepped onto the beach, trying to prevent his boots from sinking in the mushy sand. The boots were new, especially bought for the mission; carefully polished and shined an hour ago with such gusto that now he saw the silhouette of his reflection in the boots before they sank into the mush. He grimaced. All that effort. Wasted.
He unzipped the thigh pocket on his trousers and took out a compass. “Let me align our direction with true north.”
The instructions from his rich client, Dr. Costello, the aging chairman of the biggest pharmaceutical company in the world, had been simple: “At Sentinel’s end, let the true north guide you to the Garden.”
Dr. Costello had elaborated between coughs that sounded like the old man’s death knell (lung cancer?). Sentinel’s end meant the North Sentinel Island. It was a speck off the southern coast of India in the Bay of Bengal. A quick Wikipedia search told him it was home to the last uncontacted tribe on Earth – the indigenous Sentinels, apparently among the first homo sapiens to walk the Earth. The Indian government had banned any contact with the Sentinels after peaceful anthro
pological missions to the island had turned ugly. The Sentinels had attacked the gift-bearing anthropologists with spears and arrows. As if the Sentinel’s entire existence depended on protecting the island. They wanted no friends, no gifts. They wanted to be left alone. The Indian government had complied. What riches could they hope to claim by invading a tiny island of hunter-gatherers in the middle of the ocean?
True north, Dr. Costello had explained, meant the North Star. And the Garden – here was the kicker – was the lost Garden of Eden! He was drinking coffee (black, no cream) when Dr. Costello had made the revelation. He all but spewed the coffee on the expensive-looking Turkish carpet in the chairman’s plush London office. “It is a myth!” he had protested. But Dr. Costello had convinced him. Not with logic, not with scientific research. With a signed blank check.
But, finding the Garden of Eden was only half the mission. Finding the Apple Tree of Immortality inside the Garden was the other half. The better half. Dr. Costello had promised, “Bring me an apple, ripe and uneaten. Prove its existence to me, and another check will be yours.”
Now, he replayed the vague instructions to reach the Garden in his mind. He knew from past treasure-hunting expeditions: having instructions to reach the prize was one thing, successfully finding the actual prize was another. Who knew what dangers lay ahead?
He flicked open the compass and aligned it with a narrow path, the only path out of the bay.
Michelle walked over and cupped his face with her hands. Two green eyes, like oval emeralds floating in cream – an endowment from her Slavic heritage – gleamed at him from beneath her long, fake eyelashes. Her face was spotless – no freckles, no age spots. But without the usual touch of color cosmetics, her face reflected a pale, almost yellow, hue.
“Darling,” she said softly. “You don’t need a compass. At least not yet. There is one way out of this bay. And it follows the North Star. We did our research. We prepared for three months. We know this.” She spoke like she was talking sense into a five-year-old. “Now let’s go and get some action!”
“It’s never a bad idea to double-check. But you are right,” he said, closing his compass. “We know where to go from here.”
She gave him a quick peck on the lips. They switched on their heavy-duty neon flashlights. She clutched his hand and led the way. The beach merged into a thick forest walled by tall, impenetrable trees. There was only one way into the forest; only one way that perfectly aligned with the North Star. It was a narrow forest trail, beaten down centuries ago with such force that not a shrub had dared to grow since.
“Is the dagger secure?” he asked.
She nodded and pointed to her right boot. Dr. Costello had given them the dagger. It was an ancient blade made of silver, short, wide with sharp serrated ends. On its handle was carved a seven-headed snake, a king cobra, its seven heads bunched together like a protective canopy overlooking the blade. According to Dr. Costello, it was “The key that unlocks the gateway in the tree.” Which gateway and which tree he had no clue.
They entered the hallowed forest in a single file. Suddenly, wings fluttered, branches shook, and leaves fell. A raucous chirping of crows filled the air. Chirping that sounded more ominous than cheerful. They stood there, stunned.
“That was scaryyy!” She tittered.
“Well, seems like we are not welcome here,” he said.
She let out an involuntary laugh. “Ha! What were you expecting? A bow-tie wearing concierge with a welcome drink in hand?”
They brushed aside the momentary scare and marched on. The path meandered like a lazy snake. It narrowed with every step. Occasionally, they had to walk sideways, shoulder to shoulder, to maneuver the tight path. No one spoke a word. He was enjoying the solemn serenity. She was scared.
They came to an abrupt halt thirty minutes into the trek. A gigantic redwood tree blocked their path forward. He flashed his torch from the bottom to the top of the tree. And then on either side. There was nowhere to go, except to trace their steps or cut through the dense foliage on the sides with a machete.
“Well, that’s a quick anti-climax to our adventure.” She still seemed nervous. “On the bright side though, now you know why Sentinel guards don’t patrol this area. It’s nothing but a dead end.”
“No, this might be the tree with the gateway.”
“Do you see any gateway in the tree? I don’t.”
He shook his head. “They beat this path for a reason.”
“Yes, someone beat it for a reason. But later someone else planted a tree to secure the path. Just like our politicians,” she snickered. “One does the work, and the successor overturns it.”
He wasn’t convinced. He hadn’t prepared for months and come this far to turn back within half an hour. He moved closer to the redwood and flashed the light on its trunk. The trunk was massive, as wide as the red buses in London. It stood like a fifty-story skyscraper in the middle of the forest. He examined the trunk from its leftmost corner to its rightmost, scraping his hand over the bark, stopping at every contour that seemed out of place. But there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Till his hand reached the middle of the tree.
A paper-thin rectangular slit had been incised into the bark. He focused his flashlight on the slit. The wood had been shaved off. Right above the slit was a mark. He bent closer and squinted at the carving. It made his heart knock faster.
“What is it?” the girl asked.
“Show me the dagger.”
“Why, what is it?”
He stepped away from the tree. “I think we found the gateway to Eden. Look.”
She squinted at the spot illuminated by his torch and gasped. A coiled, seven-headed snake was carved on the tree. It was the same mark as on the head of the dagger.
She bent hastily, threw aside her smoky brown hair, and took out the dagger strapped inside her boot. She placed the blade next to the mark on the trunk. There was no denying it. The marks were identical.
“Wow!” She exhaled the breath she had been holding.
“There is also a slit below the mark,” he said. “I bet the dagger goes there. The key to open the gateway.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
She stepped forward, located the slit, lined up the tip of the dagger, and thrust it into the redwood. She let go of the dagger.
They waited. Nothing happened for a few seconds. Then, suddenly, the dagger handle started to glow a bright crimson. The dagger itself started to quiver as if waking up from slumber after years. It was both frightening and fascinating.
“What’s happening?” she said, her voice a blend of impatience and fear. “Should we run away?”
He shook his head, his gaze never leaving the enchanted dagger.
Slowly, the dagger started carving into the trunk, like a crimson laser beam cutting through wood. They watched in awe as the dagger traversed a full circle, steadily carving an oval door large enough for five people to walk through the tree together. Once the door was carved, the dagger fell to the ground. It lay motionless, no longer bursting with crimson hues, in deep slumber again.
They glanced at each other, unsure of what to do next.
She took a step toward the dagger and was about to pick it up when he said, “Wait! Don’t use bare hands. It might be hot.”
He took out a cotton handkerchief from his pocket and used it to pick up the dagger.
He chuckled. “Would you believe it’s freezing cold!”
“Seriously?”
“Here you go.” He offered her the dagger.
She gingerly touched the dagger with her finger, as if the carving was a real snake. The dagger was icy. She took it from him and secured it in her boot.
“Time to open the door,” he said.
He gently pushed the door in the tree. The large block of cut wood fell into the doorway, revealing a huge dark hole in the tree and beyond. He waited, trying to hear the crashing sound of the falling door contacting the floor. There was
no sound. No way of deducing the depth of the fall. It was as if there were an abyss beyond the opening.
He bent forward to inspect the deep black hole. He put his hand into the hole, one finger at a time, unsure of what lay beyond. For a moment, he imagined some black magic would transport him to their destination. Or worse, someone would grab his hand and drag him into the abyss. But nothing happened. It was just that – a large black hole of nothingness.
He turned and faced the girl. “What now?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I do not-“
Suddenly, he saw her eyebrows contort as she focused on something behind him. Her pupils dilated, her mouth opened, and blood drained from her face as she forgot to breathe for a second. She looked shaken to the core.
“Welcome!” He heard a deep-throated voice behind him.
He twisted on his heels. Standing between him and the black hole stood a creature. A creature he had only seen once in his life - on the dagger handle.
A seven-headed snake!
Bright yellow eyes drilled him. At about twenty feet, as tall as a duplex house, the snake towered over him. Seven blood-red fork-like tongues stuck out from each head, hissing menacingly. The snake had emerald-green horns, each adorned with a diadem. Like a prince among snakes. He couldn’t decide which part of its anatomy he dreaded most – the terrifying eyes, the hissing tongues, or the sharp horns. While he contemplated in a frozen stupor, the snake opened its belly and out came two human-like hands. The hands were fire-engine red. Milky goo dripped from them. He grimaced and retched, both at the same time.
The snake joined its hands at the palms. “Welcome! I am Saraph, the gatekeeper of paradise, the Garden of Eden.”
He finally blinked and moved his lips, “You can speak?”
Saraph laughed, a terrifying boom of noise interspersed with hissing.
“Usually that’s not the first thing humans say when they see me.”
“Then what do they say?”